New Year’s Eve on the Queensboro Bridge

By Jessica Wozinsky

Jan. 23, 2017

Dear Diary:

On New Year’s Eve in 2000, my mother and I were stranded in snowy Manhattan. I was 19, and we were returning from a trip to visit family in Arizona. After a canceled flight, a layover in Ohio, a 90-minute wait for luggage and a bus from Newark to the Port Authority terminal, we were ready to climb into a taxi and head home to Astoria.

That seemed unlikely after three cabbies turned us down.

“I don’t go to Queens,” each one said as they rolled up their windows.

As we dragged our suitcases through slush-covered streets, I squinted into the distance.

“Mom,” I said, “we’re in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and it’s almost midnight.” Of course, we couldn’t get a cab.

I stared at the sparkly ball overhead, marveling at Times Square in its most-famous hour. My mother shouted. Miraculously, she had hailed a cab with a driver willing to go to Queens.

Once inside the taxi, my mother told the driver our travel nightmare. As always happens, she proceeded to get his life story. His name was Rangan, and it turned out he lived around the corner from us.

As we drove over the 59th Street bridge, colored Christmas bulbs shimmered on skyscrapers, and headlights twinkled in the snow. The digital numbers on the dashboard glowed: 11:59.

“It’s almost the new year,” I said.

Rangan turned on the radio. The announcer began the countdown: “10 … 9 … 8. …”

We all joined in. At “1,” we cheered. My mother and I hugged and kissed in the back seat. Rangan turned his head and wished us both a blessed new year. Fireworks shot up from the water as we entered Queens.